Whispers Past Curfew
by a-MAXiMINalist
Summary: While Sulley is coaching Mike, the other Oozmas hear their nightly hollers as they reflect on their anxieties about the past and tomorrow Scare Games Finals. Will rotate POVs from Sheri Squibbles, Scott, Terry & Terri, and to Don. Stand-alone and follow-up to "More Than OK."
1. Sheri

_A dedication to UntoldStories113, who beta-read previous drafts months and months ago._

* * *

 **Whispers Past Curfew**

Smelling of fresh nightly laundry, Sheri Squibbles hummed a jaunty tune as she emerged from the basement, when she fancied that she heard the soft pitter-patter of feet.

She deduced it came from the kitchen. Lil' Mikey must be sneaking a piece of her Bluescary pie again. She inched toward the kitchen door, laid her hand on the knob, ready to surprise the fella with a playful fright...

The ceiling hollered.

Her attention jerked to the ceiling.

Another holler. Great humans! Upstairs!

She diverted from the kitchen door and climbed the stairs.

Sulley's shouts were followed by another _RAGH._ That _ragh._ Mikey. She knew that _ragh_ anywhere.

She stopped in her tracks, right at the edge of the staircase.

Indeed, Mikey was up and about but not the culprit in her kitchen.

There was a reason why she established a curfew. If Scott or the boys asked nicely, she could lift the curfew for special occasions. She was lucky to have tenants that didn't really protest, though the Sulley fellow did had the most trouble adjusting to it, always thrashing about and punching the ceiling in restless fits.

 _"RAAAAAGH!"_ went the walls again.

Those walls weren't exactly soundproof, an attribute that inspired a fair, inexpensive pricing for those rooms.

Impolite as it was to eavesdrop, she couldn't resist. Every conversation and argument piqued her interest. Just as long they didn't know she was listening, they wouldn't be bothered.

The back-and-forth shouting and roaring continued. Funny, wasn't it James who usually did the roaring and Mikey who did the coaching?

To hear Mikey and Sulley cooperating was just as amusing as hearing them bicker. Kinda with like the twins. Not that she wanted them to fight, but they were grown-up and healthy enough to resolve their quarrels. Sure, she could playfully interrupt their board games or try to join in their conversations. But whenever they were whispering something or speaking in low-voices, she knew it was far out of her business. She left the boys to those devices, knowing that they had to sort their own issues. She would respect their secrecy by keeping her knowledge of their secrecy a secret.

And speaking of the twins, in the intervals between the roars, she could've sworn she could hear their whispery banter.

Then James shouted, something that vaguely sounded like "DIIIG DEEEEEP!" in an adamant, yet distressed, voice and Mikey belted out his loudest scraggly roar that sounded more like an unrefined grieving howl, under-rehearsed compared to James's, yet powerful enough to echo throughout the hallway, forcing Ms. Squibbles to remember her landlady duties.

"Booooys! Itsa school night!" She called out, putting a stop to James's and Mikey's practice session.

Smiling, she shook her head. She understood that they were under the pressure of tomorrow Games, but as landlady, she had to maintain the peace of the household for the sake of Scott and her tenants. It was out of consideration for their need of a goodnight sleep.

Tenants. She often forgot the Oozmas were her tenants. Her maternal instincts were reaching out to them all.

The residents proved more rewarding then the income. She reminded herself of that when she heard their ruckus in the night. The twins were jovial, always flattering her dance moves. The furry fellow was a riot even if, or perhaps because, she didn't always comprehend him. Scott was at his happiest when he was around them.

Perhaps because they made Scott so happy, it was why he needed her less.

 _Oh, no, no, no, it's for the better,_ she scolded herself. _He would never stop loving you but he will have to stop depending on you someday._ She still did his laundry, made his bed, fried his favorite bluescary pancakes, but he no longer really talked to her. Ever since the Oozma began occupying her home, whenever she had been in too close proximity to them or interrupted their antics, Scott would holler "mom!" in typical sitcom-kid inflection (cue laugh track). He used to hold her hand in his freshman year on the way to the University. Now, whenever she reached for his hand in public in a burst of maternal inspiration, he would draw it away, swing his arms in an improvised causal exercise, and whistle to himself. As if he was unaware that she was reaching out to him.

All those deeper talks about the stress of exams and homework and those tough professors they shared together? Now Scott was reserving his talk for his friends. If she was lucky, she could catch a part of his conversation if the doors of his room was cracked open. Or she would stand by the kitchen door, eavesdropping on the Oozma's socializing, resisting the temptation to cry out, "that's my boy!" whenever he chatted about the good grades. Whenever she failed and cried out this innocuous praise, the Oozmas would smile at her (sometimes there was the bonus of Don winking at her), but Scott would flush, as if she had intruded on something important, and yank his cap down over his eyes. She still teased Scott about his clean-up responsibilities, but she could not go too far with the rules and offend his maturity.

At least, for a time being, there was Don to talk to.

She thought so little of him at first, just another sales monsters at the door trying to push Exam books for purchase before he became another potential tenant that Scott dragged into the house. He was the one who founded the fraternity, proposed to use her housing, pitched about a slew of tenants, and therefore brought her a slew of income.

She would slap Art and Terri some fives. Ask Terry to recommend good novels. Tease Mike and Sulley when they chowed down on her cooking. But with Don, there was small-talk.

Naturally, as fraternity President, Don always made sure to ask for her clearance before house antics or events (like mattress fortess building) so that the boys weren't displeasing their hostess. Those "check-ups," as Don coined the process, weren't quite mandatory, for she mostly tolerated the boy's racket and they were courteous enough to clean up after. But Don seemed to do it out of utmost politeness and along with those check-ups, there was talk, always starting out with the dandy "so now, how ya feeling lately, Missus?" and she was so attuned to it that she swore he rehearsed this. He used to inquire, "How's Scott?" until she playfully reminded him that was a silly question to ask because now Scott spent more time with the Oozmas than her. Soon, she became the one who habitually asked, "How's my Scott?" He would typically report that Scott was content, and even when he mentioned the times Scott was feeling low, he would call Scott a trooper who was strong enough to let his feelings be known to his friends and accept their comfort and always consoled his friends whenever they needed him.

When they weren't sitting down, they would walk around the neighborhood and have small-talk.

But now all those talks and meetings had mostly ceased due to his commitment to the Games. He was always out with Mike now, doing push-ups in the yard, sneaking around with the others during Hide-Sneak drills, muttering vocabulary to himself over breakfast. He was back to calling her "Ms. Squibbles" as if they had nary a glance at each other. The last time they did have a substantial talk was weeks ago and it was regarding the matter of that rival fraternity.

She had rarely spoken to him since O.K. entered the Games, not wanting to bother him. But it would be nice to have those walks and small-talks back. About the typical going-ons. About Don's full-employment days before Oozmanian Industry downsized. Small-talks may be small, but big things can be said. About her M.U. days before her pregnancy, of things she didn't yet have the courage to tell Scott... stuff too grown-up for Scott and the rest of the younger Oozmas to take interest in or really comprehend.

And speaking of Scott.

She spied a crack of light beneath her son's bedroom door. With a shake of her head, she _tsked_ affectionately.

* * *

 _A/N_

 _After just about two years of preparation and development hell, this fanfiction is finally out. Constructive criticism (preferably longer than three sentences and specific about the story aspects) always appreciated. While this is a stand-alone fanfic, I do consider this as a follow-up to "More Than OK" and it's somewhat alluded to in the history of Oozma Kappa's founding._

 ** _The next chapter teaser :_** _"Art, you can't just tell me not to think of anything when we got everyone to think of tomorrow," Scott pleaded._


	2. Scott and Art

_A/N_

 _Again, thanks to UntoldStories113 for giving an ample Beta-read over this chapter almost a year ago._

* * *

Inhaling and exhaling on top of his bed, Scott felt like a pretzel with his legs crisscrossed and fists resting on his knees.

With his eyes shut, he half-expected to fall asleep. It was Art's yammering that kept him awake.

"Deep breath, bud. Release the tension." The sound of whirling chair joints signaled to Scott that Art twirled on the swivel chair. Probably in the same meditative poise, his head toward the ceiling. "Mmmmmmm." Great, he was doing that hum again.

Art continued, "Meditation helped me get through my darkest hour." Scott could imagine Art dramatically drawing circles in the air. "When I was buried alive in that trench, ah, never mind." He shrugged. "Just relax, man, don't think of the Games. Don't think of the trophy, don't think of that Worthington, your dreams, or even the concept of greatness. Just believe in your inner peace. Let in the positive energy."

"Positive energy. Inner peace," Scott repeated as darkness of his shut eyes slowly became soothing. Maybe he can train himself to be unbothered by Art's droning.

Art lectured on, "Well, if it makes you feel better, Squish, say we lose the Games. That will cause a chain reaction of events. A butterfly will flap its wing. Babies will not be born. There will be couples who won't get together. In another state somewhere, a building could burn down... a hurricane could happen... But pretty much the same thing will happen if we win anyway. The butterfly flaps on and lives will be affected regardless. So if we lose, you and I will be ok."

That broke Scott from his meditation. "Well, Art, _you_ _and I_ can't just be ok with that. What if James, Mike, Terry, Terri, Don are _not_ ok with that. You can't just tell me _not_ to think of _anything_ when we got _everyone_ to think of tomorrow," he pleaded. He knew Art was being reassuring, but he could not fathom the possibility of being ok when losing. If it were an individual contest, maybe, but this was a _team_ they were talking about. He would not be ok with losing as long as everyone had their future at stake here. Especially Mike, who would fret about his losing. And James, who had cool talents that could not be wasted. Don, who waited "a good hard-blown decades," in his own words, for such an opportunity to pop up.

As Art rubbed his scraggly chin, his eyes glowed with a vacant expression like a hypnotist who somehow hypnotized himself. "You do drive a good point, bud. Yeah, as the saying goes, separation is an illusion. I'm an individual, but I'm an individual in a collective group. Connected to all of you-"

"Art." Scott grinded his teeth. "Can't you take this seriously? We've already been through too much. We can't screw this up."

"I know." As if it was timed, Art swiped out something from his OK cuff.

"We wouldn't want _this_ to happen, again?" His grubby hand revealed the gleam of a photo.

Scott first glimpsed the pink goopy shape of Michael Wazowski's astonished face, surrounded by his glob-drenched brothers. All of Oozma Kappa, covered in colorful grunge and sparkles, courtesy of Roar Omega Roar. He saw himself, soaked in yellow, rocking like a toddler. Oozma Kappa's colorful shame immortalized. All accentuated by the one dollar sign at the corner at the photo.

He recoiled as the trauma all re-sunk in his brain. Why? Why? Why?

What would their brothers say? What would Mike say if he found out Art kept a token of their shame?

"Look at the photo. What do you feel?" Art, so serene, yet curious and woeful.

"Art, how could..." Scott pressed his face against his pillow. He didn't have to look again. He could still feel the slime hurled at him like a slap on his skin, the sparkles, the "cute things" that seemed so banal yet degrading. Worthington's laughter echoed. The laughter of the school. The sight of their humiliation posted all over campus with classmates flocking to purchase it for their amusement. The grief of his brothers... struggling to process everything around them.

"Sorry, I would like to know how you feel."

Maybe if he appeased Art a little, he would stop ambushing him with absurd questions. Flinging his head off his pillow, his emotions scurried out. "It's obvious isn't it? Shame... agony... torture... Why? Why? Humiliation. Anger. Why?" He would fire out a thousands synonyms to describe it all. Suddenly, he blurted out, " _Hate_!" and threw his hand on his lips. Mom once told him that "hate" was a word more harmful than all the curse words in the world.

Even Art was astonished by Scott's terminology because he lowered the picture and remorse deepened into his face. Scott clutched his hand to his mouth, afraid that if he let go, the word would slip out again. Insensitive was the last thing he wanted to be.

"Sorry pal, I really shouldn't have shown it to you." Art closed his eyes. "Yeah, I feel the same way."

Scott had no idea how to respond.

A noise broke the confusion.

It was James. Behind the wall. Shouting something.

Then there was a screech that sounded like Mike.

Scott flinched, but glad that something interrupted the subject matter at hand. "Should... we check up on them?" What was Mike doing up and about? Poor Mike and James, Scott thought. Mike was tense. Good old James was tense. Oh no, what if James and Mike were full of negative energy? Why tonight? And James was always so brave. Could James be all right?

Art remained un-flinched by back-and-forth between Sulley and Mike. Art's voice was lulling yet edged with bumpiness. "I always offered them my relaxation expertise but... ack, you're the only one here who appreciates it. Mike and James are the sort of dudes who need outlets for their stress."

James shouted. Mike hollered in reply, followed by Mom's fluttery scolding outside.

Although Mom's voice brought a smile upon Scott's lip, he realized they had stayed a little over curfew.

"Art, it's time for shut-eye now."

But Art was inattentively gazing down upon the photo.

"Art. You need to rest on it."

Art didn't look up.

"Art, why do you do this? Why do you even have that?" The guy never meant harm, but why did he have to spook him with that bad memory?

"I sorta figured..." the fella's two big teeth bit his putty lips. "If I could get used to looking at the photo, I could immune myself to the painful memory." His voice lulled softer like a dying breeze. "I want to cry too."

Art? Crying? He always knew Art was capable of getting hurt, but crying?

Scott patted him on the back.

Art stared down. "Did you know that this is one of the few un-doctored ones?"

"Un-doctored?"

"They didn't photoshop it." Suddenly, Scott saw. He remembered that the majority of all those Cute-Ma-Ka merchandize depicted most of them with wide-open grins, which confused and tormented him because he never remembered happiness at this event. In this authentic copy, everyone but Art was smiling. Art had his mouth agape with a grin, as if celebrating the moment. The ROR didn't even need to edit Art's expression. "It's 100% genuine, look, even that Chet dude patented it on the back with a stamp." He tapped on the red 100% Authentic stamp. "They didn't need to make me any more ridiculous."

This was a sign for Scott to hug Art. "Yer know, Artie, I cried when that happened." He remembered the distinct awful feeling of wanting to embrace mom when they trudged home that night. But he didn't want to trouble her. His biggest consolation that night was Don patting him on the back and feebly whispering, "sonny, everything will be ok, I promise," but sounding like he had no faith in his own words. Then Don would bat off Mike's seething words ("Squishy, it's over, stop, please.") in a harsh whisper, "Michael, please, leave Scott to his tears." But Don's defense had only amplified the teardrops because he was a disappointment to Mike and a burden to Don.

"How do you do it?" muttered Art.

"What?"

"Cry."

"What? Um, I get hurt." More embarrassingly, getting "hurt" didn't mean physical injury, but the stress of the teasing. "But I don't _ever_ want to cry."

"No one does. But crying's good for you. It's healthy." So was Art saying that the night Scott cried ROR prank was a good thing? "Did you know that I kinda _wished_ I cried when that happen?" He gesture toward the photo.

What in sweet humans could Art be yammering about? He was sad when the event happened. Wasn't that sadness enough? He was strong enough to _not_ cry.

"Art, why would you want to cry? It's embarrassing."

"No. It's like a vaccine. No one wants a vaccine. It's not their fault. But they still need it to be healthy. When you cry, you let it all out."

So Art had some buried sadness in him.

Scott placed his hand on Art's shoulder and softly vowed, "Art. Save your tears. Because you'll cry tears tomorrow. Tears of _joy_ when we bring home the trophy. Trust me on that." Scott would give the best scare there was. For Art. For everyone. And he'll have plenty of tears to spare for that moment. He wanted to know what it was like to cry tears of joy.

"I promise you that, _bro_. _Everyone_ promises you that." It was a given. His teammates would give their best for Art's sake. Him, Don, Terry  & Terri, Mike, James.

A wide smile stretched on Art's face, identical to his grin on the Cute-Ma-Kappa photo.

The door creaked opened.

Scott swiped the photo off Art's hand and shoved it under his pillow just in time for his mom to poke her head in.

They never told her about Cute-Ma-Kappa.

His mom entered and quietly shut the door. "Oooo, sharing secrets, boys? Mind if I listen?"

Waving, Art chimed, "Hey Sheryl. No secrets here. Just teaching Squish here the art of positive energy." Even Art knew better than to discuss Cute-Ma-Ka with mom.

Embarrassing as Mom was, Scott always liked how her rolled-up curls bounced when she laughed. "All righty then. Scottie, Artie, lights out, lil' troopers." The scent of detergent on her gown would remind him how hard she worked doing everyone's laundry.

Art threw a salute to her. "Night Sheryl, night Squish." And Art slipped right passed his mom and out the door. Scott found himself looking back at Art, wanting to ask more, continue where they left off.

But Mom was walking toward him.

She was now leaning over him. _Oh no, she knows._ She knew something was under his pillow. Scott sunk, wishing that his pillow would swallow him, but the crinkle of the photo cracked in his ears. S _he heard it. She can't know about that, it would break her..._ She was leaning toward him to inspect...

Quick in a blink, she pecked a goodnight kiss on the forehead. "Yeesh, mom!" He wiped the kiss off with the back of his hand. "I'm not your baby!"

"But you will always be my Scottie." She giggled as she took a seat at his bed as she had done when she tucked him into bed when he was young. She had a habit of wordlessly staring at him for a few minutes with her five blue eyes fixed on him. He used to make a game of counting how many times she blinked.

Then her hand rose, revealing the slip of photo in her hand.

"Sweetie, now explain what's this doing under your pillow? Her curious eyes surveying that dreaded photo. Scott's first reaction. How? The goodnight kiss was a sneaky maneuver. She swiped it silently from the pillow right when her lips met his forehead.

Scott bit his bottom lip. "It-it-it belonged to Art."

Her face remained stuck in that inquisitional glance. She wasn't even looking at it.

"Art thought that looking at it would help me face my fears. I don't know, some therapy stuff we tried." His teeth sunk into his lip as he mumbled, "it's a horrible picture I know..." He turned away, hoping his mother would dismiss it as a cute little item and leave him alone.

"Sweetie, it's all right."

In soft astonishment, Scott turned over to see her expression of somber concern in place of her usual smile.

"I know you only wanted to spare my heart, but I knew."

But how? The night they dragged themselves home from the Roar Omega Roar house, she was asleep. They had sneaked home and cleaned themselves quietly to spare her from their woes. He had let the tears run, but he choked back the sobbing noises.

She laid down the photo upon his desk. "Those were all over campus. Thought it was... cute."

What disturbed Scott was her slight chuckle when she uttered "cute."

Was it better having her believe that or have the truth?

He had never seen her shiver uncomfortably before. "...Until I learned exactly how these photos came about. I asked Don about it. You boys clearly didn't want to talk about it. So I just baked you lots of sweets from that day on." She informed with touch of sternness in her otherwise sprightly voice.

A wave of relief and sadness washed over Scott, "You knew?" Were their efforts to shield her from their woes in vain? He remembered that she seemed to be baking them lots of cakes and cookies after that day, but thought she was just being kind.

She tsked. "Don and I decided not to ever bring it up to you guys. Told me that you - you boys - put so much effort in getting me _not_ to notice. We agreed it was the grown-up thing to do. You boys wanted to move on. Don wanted to move on." She blinked, seemingly aware that the boys had tried to hide it from her. True, now after their trip to M.I., there appear, the event was swept to the back of their minds, unspoken of among them, because there was rehearsal to focus on.

Don. So strangely, Scott was relieved that Don disclosed the matter to his mom. Scott lived in a home full of adults. The twins and Art (he could guess) were in their early twenties. Even Sulley and Mike were younger, yet Scott never particularly considered that they ever took his place as, what his mother most playfully said, the "baby" of the group. Everyone, even Sulley and Mike, acted older than him.

But Don stood as the true grown-up of Oozma Kappa. He had always that patience that Scott both envied and pitied. At every rejection from passers-by on campus and ridicule for his age, Scott sensed the silent breakdowns in Don, unable to retaliate against insults due to some considerate code of honor that old adults had. Depressing, how the majority of campus students were of adult age yet didn't act like grown-ups, prone to ridiculing others like ROR.

He noticed Don's forlorn head-shakes. Old adults think that they can hide their troubles away from the eyes of the young to maintain some sort of dignity. He remembered how glumly Don always stared at his business card even though he enjoyed showing them off. The aftermath of the ROR party was among the few times Don didn't mind showing deep sadness around his brothers.

"Oh, sweetums, what else is wrong?"

"And, you think I'm... cute." He was thinking that every time she thought him as her "cutie pie" or "lil' baby boy," she proved ROR right.

"Sweetie, now that ain't a bad thing."

"But it is. I'm going to be a Scarer..." Well, he was so sure they will win. "Scarers aren't cute." They were jerks, yet ROR was right that Scarers aren't cute. That was one bitter truth they wedged into their brains.

He realized he had raised his voice. "I'm sorry, mom."

"Now sweetie, why feel sorry? You ain't done anything wrong."

Scott slumped down, "I should've never gone to that party. I could've stopped them from going." And it would have spared his mom from worry.

"Oh Scottie. Regrets are a funny thing." She seemed to be talking both to him and herself.

She continued, "But keep holding onto them, you'll need regrets to learn things... and, it ain't your fault. It ain't your pals' fault. You just wanted to have a good time, like every college fella, though those awful fellas ruined it for you." She shook her head as if she could not comprehend such existence of kids like Johnny. "At times though, you oughta stare straight into your fears sometimes if you want to get on with life. That's what Artie was trying with this."

"What are you scared of, mom?"

She leaned over, teasingly. "You."

Best Scarer's compliment he ever got. Not even Mike's rare praises could top that. "Really?"

"You _terrified_ me," she asserted. "When I felt your very first little wiggle in my womb."

She seemingly had something in her eye because she took a moment to rub it for a prolonged amount of time, massaging them beneath her palms.

"Mom, are you..."

"I thinking, sweetums." But she didn't have him fooled. Like Don, sometimes his mom tried to conceal her sadness, but that mostly occurred during his younger days. The thought made Scott curious about her secrets. But adults were always so private about their sadness. He already asked her once if she ever cried. And she answered, "I only cried when you were born. Tears of joy." And that confused him because he always associated tears with sadness and he had memories of her choking back sobs whenever he was pretending to be asleep.

She liberated her face from her palms. "Scott, what I mean is that I fear for you, sweetie. Just like you fear for everyone else." She had an understanding smile on her face, one that made him realize that she knew that he was ashamed of his dependence on her. Plenty of college folks lived with their parents, but his attachment to his mom was noteworthy, notorious, around campus. Although he liked walking around public with his mother, he grew wary of the whispers on campus. They didn't hold hands anymore, but that didn't stop the whispers. All those stares and whispers implanted the horrid, insensitive notion that having a mom as his best friend meant he was incapable of having other friends and he lived off her constant doting.

What was wrong about having a cool mom? What do they have against that? But worse of all, why did he believe them sometimes?

"I _won't_ be cute and adorable. I'll just be scary from then on."

"No, no sweetie, it's great to be adorable. You were born that way." She stroked the area of his "missing horn." It was easy to miss, even for Scott, that he was missing a horn. It was hidden so well that it seemed more like a normal part of him rather than a visible birth defect.

"What if I didn't want to be born that way?"

"Well, but you are." Now she was deep in thought.

" _I_ didn't choose to be this way. I want to be _someone else_."

Whenever she paused after a question, Scott knew she figured that her answer wasn't enough for him.

"You're lovely the way you are. It's obvious. But if you want scary, you can have it _too_."

"But scary and cute don't go together. Being cute got me that D in Scaring School."

"Scottie, I don't give two dangs if you were cute, scary, neither. Hey, I love you if you were cute, scary, or neither. You're Scottie. You don't belong to the Scaring folks. You can sure join em' if you like, but you do not belong to them. You belong to yourself."

She winked. "who's to say that you can't be both? And if that Worthington and those bullies say that's a bad thing... then to _heck_ with them."

She rubbed her fist on his tuff of hair, a reassurance that it was all right to still be best friends with his mom. She had been trying to permit him some independence. She ruled his bedtimes, though the rule dissolved into more of a house guideline. He kept asking for her permission to lift the curfew on occasion not to show that he was her baby, but instead to remind her that he respected her.

When she left, he took to staring at that photo. It never became less terrible. Far from cute. A mockery of cute. Something that cries out that cuteness was to be shamed and degraded rather than celebrated or even tolerated.

They were cute. ROR was right. The campus was right. But Mom was the right-est of all, he thought. But perhaps the only thing that mattered that he was cute to mom. And she found it to be a wonderful thing. And his brothers, even Mike, would accept him as cute.

What stuck out most to him personally was him on the floor, after a terrible toddler-like slip.

But other than the grieved looks on his the other guys' face, now another detail stood seemed to be the sole bright spot in an otherwise degrading image.

Drenched in blue grunge, Art, grinning, not with the joke, but rather, as an affirmation that his nature was as unfixable as the meanness and cruelty of ROR.

It looked like triumph.

* * *

 **Teaser for next chapter about the twins :** _No wonder they had been the source of each other's sleep deprivation for two decades. His, their, heart rate accelerating..._


	3. Terri & Terry

No wonder they had been the source of each other's sleep deprivation for two decades. His, their, heart rate accelerating, Terri curled his fingers at the fabric of the blanket, while Terry buried himself in _Mastering Illusions_. Terry wondered if their distinct personality could be attributed to their biology. It had been just one proposal in theories, disputed or affirmed by conjoined-twins geneticists on each side. A most common hypothesis: diverse brain mechanics in each twin makes for a balanced heart.

Terri itched for movement. But this was Terry's night of peace. No dancing tonight.

"Quit it, Terri." Terry remained fixated on _Mastering Shadows,_ a lent copy from Mike.

Good thing their rommie was with Squishy. If Art heard them shifting about, he would probably ramble out unneeded advice or some Hippie-bull about separation, illusions, negative-positive energy, yadda-yadda...

"What did I do?" His, their, heart leaped up at this outburst.

"Calm down, take a breather," Terry mumbled. "Want to rip up our chest?" He was no mind reader, but a joint bodily function like the furious pulsings of their heart or the bloated swelling of their lungs could give away each of their emotion to the other. Their organs were still alien to them. Like a mobile foreign object in their chest. It reminded them how delicate they were.

"Oh, sorry." Why couldn't he just have his own heart to race in peace? Why did Terry had to feel his nervousness? Why couldn't they possess their own separate hearts? Though again, if they did, it would probably double the beatings within their chest.

Terry took a momentary roll of an eye and reverted back to reading. _Shadows. Shadows were once theorized to contain the souls of the mons, a projection of their inner Scariness. While the myth has been rejected, they certainly can be used to convey shapes and allow the illusion..._

Terri stared at the wooden ceiling of the vacant bunk above them, gazing straight at the wooden plane of boredom. He just had to twitch. He needed morning training regimen. He needed to burn energy. When will morning come? What if he made a misstep tomorrow? A misstep was an inch away from failure, from Don losing his employment prospects, to Squishy's tears, to Art's droopiness, to Terry's unspoken frustration and sullen glares. Terri thought, what if I fall? What if I trip? Terry will fall with him, and so would the entire team.

Terry was thinking, gosh I need sleep, but maybe the more I read about shadows, the better I'll, we'll, do tomorrow. I halfa burn this into my brain. The sharper the shape of the shadows, the more effective the scare.

Good thing Mike coached their nocturnal vision for the Hide-and-Sneak level. Now he could read _Mastering Shadows_ in the dark. Hiding. Squeezing the frame of your shape behind a small object. Estimating angles, calculating spatial distance, and anticipating child's point of view from the distance.

Gosh Terri, stop fidgeting.

Terri was sure that Terry was getting annoyed with him know for some reason.

What was that relaxation thing Art tried teaching them once? "Mmmmmmm."

"Jeez, Terri, calm down,"

"That's..." He shifted himself to a harsh whisper to prove that he wasn't agitated. "That's exactly what I'm trying to do."

"You're trying too hard. Read a book. Bore yourself to relaxation."

Terri would. He'd happily absorb a copy of _Mastering Shadows_. But his brain bounced off words. He didn't have Terry's brain. He had little patience for vocabs and paragraphs. Terry got all that. He needed someone to watch and follow. Like their dancing instructors. Dancing classes got no textbooks required, no big words to decipher in the english literature pages. Terri was what Terry classified as a "hardcore kinetic learner."

Terry could read and memorize all the concepts like Mike, perfect his Scare knowledge, but Terri could still fail him. By extension, Terry would a bad scarer because of him.

Yet, Terry, at least, had been good dancer for Terri.

Terry still had that skeptical feeling since the day he noticed Terri writing down "Dance" major on the academic paperwork. Terry didn't argue against that, though he did complain about sharing every dancing sweat with Terri. The worse thing about (Terri's) dance class was that coordinated or not, there was pain all around. He'll calculate his steps correctly in class and keep up with the tune. He would fall again and pull down Terri. Not to mention the credit hours piled upon them. Sometimes he was panting over English exams and even timed essays. He had to jazz dance while contemplating those constant writing critiques from his professors. But he couldn't jeopardize Terri's grade. It wasn't just to spare himself from the dancing teacher's wrath, but also so Terri wouldn't be humiliated. Besides, he would remind himself of the benefits. Dancing made them get their exercise over with, challenged their heart to keep up with them. It wasn't Terri's fault that he was stuck to him, but sometimes he thought it was unfair that they were stuck. He was probably the heavier head to Terri.

A piercing scream from the walls.

Terri sprung up, nearly scrapping his head and horn on the empty bunk above him. This jolted Terry so that caused him to drop his book to the floor.

Another roar.

 _Oh geez_ , _are Mike and Sulley bickering again?_ was Terri's first thought.

Why this night of all night? He hated to remind himself that these two had been in frequent conflict since they moved in. Even the Oozmas had learned to respect their space, though Squishy would try to bridge it with his well-intended innocent, "It's all right. Just get along." Terry never stated it outward to them, empathizing, and disliking, how others would remind him and Terri to get along. Made it more frustrating to solve their own issues.

Mike bellowed. Sulley hollered orders. Now the walls have voices.

Oh, they were just practicing. Sulley was ordering Mike on certain roars. Generic, unspecific orders to dig deep. No fighting. Maybe it was because he was used to Mike doing the coaching and Sulley doing the roaring. Or maybe he was just stressed and nasty from the effect of bashing his head on the bunk. Sulley was playing the role of a passionate choreographer flinging directions at his performer. Sulley and Mike were so diligent at working together. But of course it was easier for them. They weren't linked. And they choose it. Their bodies moved with their own mobility. Simply two separate guys who met by chance, not stuck together since the womb.

Terri thought, _everyone around me is so productive_. Mike and Sulley rehearsing, Terry studying shadows, Don getting a good-night sleep, Art and Squishy meditating calmly elsewhere.

What was that breathing technique Art tried? "Ummmmmmmmmmmmm." Deep breath. "Ommmmmmmmmm..."

"Quit it."

Terri's hands reached toward the clip-on lamp at the side of their bed. He flicked it on, producing an oval beam of light on the wall. Terry groaned as Terri proceeded to hover his hands in front of the light.

If he couldn't be productive like Terry, he'd have to be productive in his own way.

"Terri, turn that off."

"But you're up and reading."

"I'm exercising my nocturnal vision _and_ reading myself to sleep." His nocturnal vision was sharp enough to read words in dark, but he could barely sleep in light. "And what are you doing?"

"Exercising hand coordination," he explained. Right now, this was his only option of productiveness.

Eying the blank wall, Terri wondered what illusion could he do. His rubbery fingers pinched. Squenched his first and fingers. Bam. A shape of a lump. A head sticking out. He thought of the pigeons on campus, pecking on the pavement. Move that finger there to make a beak. Wall-a! Just . A pigeon oughta amuse Terry. This could amuse Squishy too.

Terry edged his book to the side to peek at the pigeon.

Terri put two fingers together and lifted them to expand its yawning beak and waggled his knuckles so that pigeon would ruffle its wings.

Sulley shouted again. Mike roared.

"Great humans!" His, well, their heart thumped. "They're ruining my focus!"

"Focus, Terri. Don't let them ruin anything for you. Don't let a big crowd of a hundred ruin your focus. Don't let ROR's jeers ruin you."

Maintaining his pigeon and trying to repress the memory of paint slapping upon him, Terri swallowed three deep controlled breaths, something that would earn Art's nod in approval. In his head, he counted. One. Two. Three. Four, ugh, he had to move, five, six, seven eight nin-

The walls continue to shout.

Terri's pigeon bounced around. It bowed it head down, not to peck, but to mope.

Terry interpreted that as a signal that the pigeon wanted a companion. So Terry lifted his set of hands rose and produced another shadow that fused into Terri's pigeon. Out popped another pigeon head.

A two-headed pigeon.

Terri's brow rose with elation.

Then Ms. Squibbles's sing-songy voice scolded Mike and Sulley.

Though a tad startled, they even made the pigeon shudder at the jump of her voice. Squishy's mom sounded like their mom. They loved Mom but were glad that Ms. Squibbles wasn't the sort to scold them in fear that they would rip themselves apart if they squirmed too much. She understood they needed space.

The pigeon shadow pecked at the air.

"Gee, Terry, move it around a little. You're acting as if the pigeon's carrying a load." Now Terry's hands were sweating, quivering. "You got plenty of space, right?"

Terry did have space. But it wasn't the issue of space as much as it was the problem of weight and timing. With Terry hovering the second head, they had to be more careful not to rip their hands away or ruin the image. They had to keep up with each other. Pace themselves. Anticipate each other.

Terri allowed his pigeon ruffle his wing. Terry followed suite with his side.

Improvisation was their shakiest move. Not that they were bad at it. Just tense. Like Terry, Terri preferred calculating their movements beforehand rather than performing something random on the spot. But they would have to adjust to whatever child-files they would receive at the Games. A disagreement about what trick to use would be time-consuming and unprofessional. Mike's coaching rang loud and clear, "immediate versatility, boys! Reaction has to be precise and immediate!" Pedantic, but he had a point.

"Say Terry, what if our tricks don't work on the child stimulation tomorrow?" Terri's pigeon began snapping at the air to catch some imaginary fly.

"Worth a shot, Terri, worth a shot," Terry muttered, wishing he had the energy to give a clear answer. They did the typical tricks. Terry made a tongue come out of his pigeon's beak as he made it yawn. Terri had his peck the air...,

But the pigeon couldn't bounce around. Terri remained static, afraid of breaking the illusion. Or worse, tear the pigeon apart.

They shared a fondness for magic and illusions. Terri, because there was something so fluidly choreographed in magic. Terry, because magic was such a controlled, graceful art with the right amount of showiness to it. They had to be professional.

And their hands flapped, bring the double-headed pigeon into flight, an image that they practiced for five years to perfect. After hovering the pigeon for over a minute, exhaustion wore down their arms.

His hand was tired, but Terri figured he could challenge Terry for while. He waited for Terry to give up. Yank his hands, to signal that the pigeon wanted to break away. Ready for his pigeon to take flight.

Terry kept carefully edging around and to match Terri's movement. They sweated under the lamp light and pressure of hands sticking together.

Terry sensed that. As much as he abhorred the increasing stickiness of the sweat, he hated failing the illusion. I need to be like Don. What I need, is his patience. I need his pleasantness. His ability to smile even after failture. Maybe then, I can relax and not sweat the big stuff. Where does Don gets his patience? From those customers of his old company? Oh, stop thinking, focus Terry, focus Terry, Terri needs this. Terri needs this pigeon. If I break the pigeon, that means we're incapable of winning. Don needs this, Squishy needs this, Art, Michael, Sulley...

Terri's lips puckered as the heat of the lamp closing in. Sweat protruded down their foreheads. But they challenged themselves to keep it up, daring the other to drop their hands.

But their willpower was about to collapse in the tremors of their palms. To compensate, they pretended that the pigeons were simply shivering in the cold.

But Terry's hands succumbed to exhaustion, making him surprised and disappointed with himself for not keeping up with Terri. He found himself slightly shifting his hands to the side to signal his resignation. Terri saw that and he moved his hands in the opposite direction. The twin pigeons were tearing themselves apart.

They dispersed into two individual pigeons as their hand shadows parted, flying their separate ways, retaining clear shape.

So in the end effect: the two-headed pigeon flew their separate ways. First time they ever did a variation of that trick.

 _Perfect finale,_ Terry thought. Their struggles did not ruin the illusion. It merely forced them to work along with a potential error. It didn't deter the original intent, but it improved it. Elevated it.

They couldn't wait for the Games to be done with. They couldn't wait to show off their trick. Terri could see Squishy's awe-filled eyes now. Terry could see Mike's rare grin of approval.

Terry laid there with the bubbling elation, like he had just finished reading a poem that moved him in unexplained ways that was worth five essay pages, while Terri calmed down as if he had busted a perfect dance move and bowed at thunderous applauses.

Terri's last thought was the refreshing feeling of feeling his, their, heart rate recede. Feeling for the first time in a long time, they drifted asleep at the same moment.

* * *

 ** _Teaser for final chapter : _**_"With the warmth of Sheri's hands upon his own palm, Don found his nerves tightening. A confession nudged at him. The cocoa must be running to his head. His three hearts chugged in his chest so firmly that he was sure she could feel his blood churning through his palm."_


	4. Don

If he let his nerves get the best of him, then his nerves would get the best of his team.

Don Carlton reminded himself of that as he watched the bubbling sludge of liquid chocolate in the pot under the stove light. It was like shaping up for a million-dollar sales pitch tomorrow. In his old company days, he had stiffly stepped out of conference room after 10-minute pitches, wondering, what hand motions did he misuse? Did he flub anything? Was his breath too heavy? What he too quick, too slow? If only he rehearsed a moment more! What could he do, done better, next time? Dah. Small errors could cost him a raise or a promotion.

Don rubbed the _O.I._ label with the back of his palm on his lucky mug, a souvenir that had sat at his old office desk for three decades. It was a gesture of good luck in Oozmanian Industry, a habit that somewhat derived from a minor fad where co-workers who would pat their O.I. mug label before making a sale. Now the label was a phantom of words, faded by the wear and tear of his palm's gentle friction. He always drank hot liquids out of that mug to relax his throat for a pitch.

The cocoa sizzled, beads of tiny bubbles frothing to the surface. Just about done. He poured it right into his mug. The chocolaty aroma steamed into his nostrils. Now this better ease his nerves. Now he would take the hot mug and let it cool at his bedside. It had been a habit of his to keep cocoa at his nightstand for occasional sips.

Someone sang in the living room. A female voice faintly hummed the unintelligible lyrics too fast for him to comprehend or enjoy. Ms. Squibbles? Sheri? He hadn't counted on her being around at this hour! But how could he forget her laundry nights? He snapped off the stove light, ready to dive himself into the Swift Maneuver behind the counter.

She wouldn't be mad at him for sneaking a snack past the curfew. He knew her better than that. He figured this little chance would be a brief impromptu rehearsal, a challenge to avoid detection. A rehearsal.

Aside from that, he hadn't really spoken to her much since the start of the Scare Games. He didn't know if he had the right words to say. Part of him wanted her to open the door, catch him, and maybe exchange a humorous word or two. Maybe he won't hide. Maybe he'll wait and let her come to him.

Then something faintly screeched and hollered from above.

Thumping noises scurried from the ceiling. Mike? James? Practicing at this hour? Their nerves must be tense too.

Then Ms. Squibbles's footsteps faded. Don channeled his sense of Noise Inference, as Mike taught him, when it came to listening for parents approaching the bedroom. Ms. Squibbles was climbing the stairs to investigate the noise. He could tell by the soft padding of feet and its creaks of ascension.

Her fluttery voice scolded Mike and James. Her scoldings were laced with affection. One felt so guilty to upset her.

A door above opened and closed. Footsteps on the board. How his hearing had amplified since his training. Not in the sense that his surroudings were louder, but rather, he could detect the tinniest and most precise of specific minor noise like the gentle hum of electricity in the grandfather clock.

He could hear the muffled bantering of Sheri and Scott. She had gone to Scott's room, he deduced.

So coast was clear. For now. Time to slip to his room. He had to go before Sheri emerged.

His hand closing over the mug handle, Don slipped out into the living room into the sound of the grandfather clock ticking. It would be a minor obstruction to his hearing senses. Now to place his foot on the stairs. It creaked under its weight. Standing on it for long would prolong the creaking, so he found himself, pacing himself up the stairs, swiftly so his feet would brush the floor like a five pounds of feathers, until finally, his feet reached the carpet of upstairs. Great, and not a drop spilt! Now he could slip into his room and get som-

Scott's bedroom door opened.

Out rolled Art, who rapidly shut the door with the deft movement of his foot. His limbs brushed Don's elbow, unfortunately startling Don into stumbling forward.

Although those handy suckers secured his grip on the mug's handle, he had tipped the mug enough so that drops of cocoa splashed on the floor.

Art's halted his wheeling, unfolded, and eyed Don.

Peering down, Don noticed, to his dismay, that a splash of cocoa had not landed on the cleanable hardwood floor, but instead one of Ms. Squibbles's carpets, soaking into a large spot on its floral patterns. No trick of the dark or his glasses. His nocturnal vision wasn't failing him. Mike had made sure that everyone, including old Don, sharpened their nocturnal vision for that last Hide-And-Sneak event with darkness drills.

"Sorry dude." He nearly forgot that Art was there.

"It's quite all right. Mai 'reaction timing, 'as Mikey calls it, needs fine-tuning." Better avoid slip ups like these when he performed his Scare. Slip-up like this could wake the child too early, ruin the atmosphere... cost his Oozmas their Scaring future.

Art stared forlornly at the stain. "It's my reaction timing that needs works. Totally crashed into ya'."

"It's ok, sonny, I'll get the washing rag."

"No, no, dude, I'll get it."

The whispery exchange went on, until Don realized they had debated too long about culpability and the stain had sunk in. _Son of a... mustache,_ he cursed in his head. His late Pa' Carlton raised him to hunker down to a safe word before blurting out something filthy, even if it was inside his head.

He reminded himself to deal with the durn stain later so not to be tired for Mike's morning training regimen. He shouldn't stress. No heartburns. No back cracks. He needed sleep. "Well, good night, Art, I'll deal with it later. Don't-"

But Art had peeled off his woolen OK cuff and started mopping at the hardening stain. "Art. Don't soil yer lucky cuff. Let me handle this."

"Dude."

But before his could answer, the knob to Scott's door rattled, which jolted up his Scarers instinct.

Instinctively, they sprung up, just as they rehearsed for Hide-and-Sneak.

From the corner of his eyes, Don spied the flutter of the cuff disappearing at the corner of a hallway. Art had slipped off the corridor. Hearing no door slam, Don realized that the fellow was hidden off somewhere.

He was about to dart to his left when he realized that he couldn't risk spilling his cocoa again. But his bedroom was yards away. The quick maneuver was impossible with that risky object in his hand. He hadn't perfected Prop Scaring, something Mike bothered less with due to the rare circumstances of that technique even during Scare Games events.

He heard someone utter something, he spun around. Ms. Squibbles had just closed the door to her son's bedroom. Their eyes locked right in the dark.

Jeez, he was still surprised at how much liveliness there was in a lady her age. She had the scent of fresh laundry.

In a shouty whisper, Ms. Squibbles uttered, "Ah-ha." Her eyes fell onto Don's mug. "Thought I heard someone sneakin' about the kitchen."

She was just being good-natured, but Don froze, caught red-handed. He found the courage to mutter, "Just needed a dash of sweetness to calm mai nerves for tomarrow."

She seemed at a loss for words. A lull in the conversation. He could hear his three hearts thumping.

"How's Scott?"

It would be a somewhat silly question as he hung out with the kid, but he valued Sheri's input on Scott's welfare. If only more kids like Scott were around campus. They were brave enough to appreciate their maternal comforts.

"Scotty's fine, though a bit nervous about tomorrow." Poor Scott. "I reckon now he's gonna sleep like a baby once I leave him alone."

Don glanced at his mug and rubbed the O.I. label with his other hand, trying to position it so that it would look like the causal action of balancing the cup with both hands. "Um, Ms. Squibbles. I have a conf-

A serene look formed in her eyes. "Please, _again_ , call me Sheri, _Mister Carlton._ " This was the umpteenth time she teased this request like he wasn't aware of it before.

Could she see him blushing in the dark? Did she have good nocturnal vision?

Don tightened his grip on his mug before muttering, "I owe you an apology."

Perplexed, she blinked, so he clarified, "I... I hadn't had time to walk with you."

"Oh." Sheri's eyes lit up. "You were so busy, and Mikey said I couldn't ruin your focus. Lil' Mikey kept you all to himself, coaching you away."

True. It wasn't a bad thing, but it was a tad shameful to admit, that the freshman was even more intimate with his knowledge of Scaring.

"I know Mike's been keepin' me all to himself, and I hadn't had time to have walk with you anymore. But I can't wait to see ya' cheering on for us."

Her eyes were wide. She was looking forward to what else he had to say.

"Ms. Squibbles." After all the walks, cups of cocoa, and conversations they shared together, he still held onto the businessmonster precaution of formally addressing her as "Ms. Squibbles." But now it was growing more difficult to maintain a tenant-landlady relationship with her.

"Again, I cannot stress enough how grateful I am for you, Missus... for everything." Like a good businessmonster, he extended his hand for a handshake of gratitude. She blinked at his symbolic businessmonster gesture. At that moment, Don knew that they both silently agreed that a handshake was too simple for this moment. She clasped her mitt-like palm against his. Don flushed, hoping his tentacle-arm suckers wouldn't be bothersome. He shook that obligatory handshake. But then, she laid her other hand on top of the handshake. "I just want to say," she said with her voice as low as a breeze, "I do miss our small-talks."

With the warmth of Sheri's hands upon his own palm, Don found his nerves tightening. A confession nudged at him. The cocoa must be running to his head. He would rubbed the O.I. label if she hadn't been keeping his other hand prisoner. His three hearts chugged in his chest so firmly that he was sure she could feel his blood churning through his palm.

What he blurted out next was unintentional.

"Sher...- I, I spilt some of mai' cocoa on ya' rug. So there's a glarin' stain on it now. Sorry." Don flushed so hard that he was sure she could see his cheeks turning scarlet. Not that he expected sweet-tempered Sheri to ever be disappointed at spilt chocolate, but that was far from what he wanted to say now. "Sorry... again."

He thought he heard the hint of a muffled snicker. Art? But then again, it might have been just the wind of the air conditioner.

Sheri looked down. She must have good nocturnal vision to see that stain. "Oh dear." To his relief, she didn't stop smiling.

Don didn't move because her hands were still on her palms.

Silence. Then a giggle. "That's all right. You got a Game to worry about tomorrow." She giggled so hard that her head did a dip, and Don felt her hair rollers brush his forehead. "Don't worry about it. Accidents happen."

He realized then she wasn't uttering these words as a you're-a-guest hospitality obligation. She was speaking to him as if he was a decades-long resident under her roof.

Don found himself taking a long sip of his cocoa to fill in the silence, an excuse for not saying anything more until he found the time for the correct words. "I'll deal with it later." He wanted to add that he'll take her out on walks again, to make it up for her, not just for the stain but also for lost time.

Wishing him good night, she gradually plucked her hand off the suckers of his hands as she walked passed him to the door next to Scott's room. He watched her retire to her bedroom, and as her door closed, he saw her peeking through the closing crack of her door. His nocturnal vision was good enough. He did really see her stealing a look at him. So he smiled, hoping she could see his smile from the distance.

Her door shut, leaving Don in the dark, shaken and elated.

He allowed a pause, waiting for the sound of Sheri going to bed.

Then that giggle sounded.

"Art. Yer still there?"

Art emerged from the corner of the hallway with a wobbly smile that seemed to congratulate him. How could he nearly forget that Art was there, probably tuning into his chat with Sheri? His awareness needed fine-tuning. Art bore that goofy grin with the shines of tears soaking the fur below his eyes. Art. What in tarnation gave him cause to cry tears of joy? Oh, son of gun, son of gun, how much did he hear?

"I'm just so touched, Don. That was just so cool of ya'." Tears welted down his face. "It's just so sweet."

"Art." Why was he so wary at the notion that Art listened to him and _Sheri_? He was _just_ talking to her. What could that mean to Art? "Keep yer voice low."

Art rubbed his eyes. "You covered for me, Don. You took the rap for me. Always there to stick up for me."

Don had to smile. "We've been over this, it's my fault. _I_ spilt da' cocoa." Art wasn't culpable, but Don had to appreciate that he was sorry about it anyway. "Guess I'm jittery 'bout tomorrow."

"Me too," Art sighed. "I'm... sorry."

Sorry? "Sorry what?"

"I'm apologizing in advance." He sighed.

"For what, fella?"

"Cause' I might bring down the team tomorrow." His eyes and brows were drooped.

"Sonny, don't fuss over split cocoa." Don chuckled at his own hypocrisy.

Art poked his finger at the stain, hardened by then. "This isn't spilt chocolate. This is _everyone else_ I'm talking about." Art drove a good point. It wouldn't be grown-up to downplay what everyone had at stake here.

He was at a loss for the right words. Heck, he loved the fellas but sometimes felt distant with them. He felt too old sometimes, but that was the boundary that would have prevented his friendship with them. He had to bend the barriers sometimes. He played along in their last amusing initiation ceremony. He joined them at arcades though he never played much himself. For a moment, he wished he had his own children so he could be a little more experienced at reaching folks like Art. Maybe he had been looking for too much in common with the youth in trying to keep up with them. True, their failure brought them together. That was his shortcoming as a mature student. Sure, he was glad to be united with them, but to see and savor their diversity was the real joy. Or maybe his age was just some illusion he imposed upon himself.

Or maybe he was irrationally embarrassed about his lack of youth. Or really, that he still retained some part of it. Heck, he'll mull about this later...

If he could find some of the right words, the way he did with Sheri.

"Art, yer can't just pay up in advanced when ya' unsure of the product. Yer don't know that." When Art looked perplexed at the sales metaphor, he clarified, "What I'm tryin' to say, Art. Yer don't know if yer da' one. Could be me who could fail ya'." He meant for this to be humorous but didn't like to disclose this insecurity. His policy was that his problems were his own. He could not inconvenience the boys with his issues, especially when they needed theirs dealt with first. They were top priority.

And now that distressed expression melted in Art's face into a curious and concerned one. The comment had not cheered him up but rather shifted his concerns elsewhere.

"Um, so, how are _you_ feeling, Don?"

"Hunky-dory, _Arthur_." Of course, Art wasn't really _Arthur_. It was a humorous private name-gag between the two. When the fella first had given Don his name at the O.K. sign-up, Don naturally assumed, oh, nickname, fella's an Author, until corrected.

Art had a funny way of lifting his brow. "Dude, you fussed over that little carpet stain like me. What's the matter? Now tell me?" Art might have slipped into some psychiatrist-mode.

With a deep breath, he admitted, "Sonny, same case as yours. Just some nerves."

"If we don't make it... My amateur therapy service, is open to everyone, including you." He winked. "Don't be a stranger."

Cheerfully, Don replied, "And free is the best. I ain't sure there's a cure for my nerves. But this cocoa is my medicine."

"You can't cure nerves, but you can calm nerves."

"True, true. "Don chuckled. "Well, what's your prescription then, mister therapist?"

"Crying."

"Eh, any alternative medicine?"

"Breathing."

"Heh, heh, that's an obvious one." Don was no stranger to breathing techniques. He had an exercise of inhaling and exhaling before a pitch, making sure his breaths weren't too audible. The principle was the same for job interviews or the clients.

"I mean, you breathe aloud. Like a sush." Art inhaled and went _shhhhhh_ , letting his serene eyes close in peace.

After a long pause, Art, opened one eye, a face in a frozen wink, and added, "And when you do it, you pretend that you're sushing out all the bad things in life. And it's best done alone when you're not worrying about anyone watching. Try it."

Don sucked in some air, then exhaled, and in those seconds, his mind cleared like a fog fading away. He exhaled that sigh until his lungs felt hollow.

"...sush out all the bad things in life."

Within the duration of his sush, Don thought of the academic adviser's odd glance when he announced his intention to complete a Scaring Major. He thought of the snapping pain on his back when he first stood before the scream simulator in front of Professor Knight and Dean Hardscrabble three semesters ago. That disappointing performance score tacked on the wall of the Scaring School. Every constant insult from campus passers-bys whenever they attempted to add new brothers. The campus that he was proud to be a part of celebrating their woes in the wake of the cruel incident at the ROR house.

His three hearts settled down and beat at their synchronized, regular intervals. But the memories didn't fade. He still heard the laughter of ROR. They just settled down, dormant, waiting to fester again. The memories were muted, like how Novocaine numbed the jaw. He couldn't think of the good things now. He would envisioned himself as Scarer, but he couldn't pretend the future will be positive and perfect.

Before he knew it, Art's comforting hand patted his back. "If you need me, I'll be next door and we can talk about our feelings, Pops." Normally, Don would oppose the nickname "Pops," as it was the third most common derogatory terminology from campus passer-bys next to "Grandpa" and "Old Man," but Don appreciated the connotations that Art said with utmost endearment rather than casual insensitivity.

They wished each other a goodnight. Don stood in the isolated darkness. He heard the squeak of a mattress, a soft murmur (presumably a "goodnight" to the twins), Art settling in his bunk bed. And then. Silence.

The walls weren't soundproof, so the virtual quietness disturbed him. He couldn't hear anything but the softening throes of his heart, and the ticks of the clock downstairs. He had endured the nightly ruckus of the boys, something he considered to be the cons to the pros of the housing deal. Perhaps because he tended to go to bed an hour or two earlier than everyone.

Now somehow, he pined for all the familiar sounds - Art's philosophizing to the twins, the twins thumping tentacles as they danced, Sulley's and Mike's extra roaring rehearsals, Sheri's racket of Heavy Metal - that cacophony that kept him awake and caused him to thrash about the covers with his tentacles suckers plugged over his ears.

And Don hadn't forgotten Mike and James. He stood before their door, lifted his fist to knock. So quiet. No shouting. No roaring. Michael and James were asleep. He surreptitiously recoiled from their door, chiding himself for being intrusive by questioning their private thoughts. But part of him wanted to acknowledge the pains buried in their minds and come to their aid, the way Art slyly did for him. Maybe they were awake but not to be disturbed.

So he slipped away in the dark, quietly lugged himself to bed, with what was left of his cocoa on standby on his nightstand, in case his nerves ached again.

His room seemed so empty, like his apartment back on Dark Avenue, which reminded him, he hadn't even tidied or swept the place in months. His apartment had been reduced to some weekend home since his stay at the Squibbles's house during his late school years, but now it had became some vacant estate he owned. Ever since the first round at the Scare Games, going back there would be counterproductive. He needed to train. He needed Mike's criticism at proximity for maximum improvement. He needed Scott's encouragement. He needed those rare grins from James too. Art's bizarre advice. The twin's dance exercises. He wanted Sheri's joyous hollers from the crowd. He needed to be around everyone to remind himself that he really wasn't fighting for an employment prospects in the first place.

His head sinking in his pillow, he sighed out to fill in the silence because the lack of noise from his fellow residence was making him feel awful lonesome. As the air exited from his lungs, he felt drowsier and lighter.

He'll have the morning ruckus to look forward to.

* * *

 _A/N_

 _As soon as I take a break from M.U. fanfiction and complete an "Inside Out" piece, I'll do the next follow up, a 3-chaptered Don-centric story._

 _ **Teaser for followup** : "Don admitted to himself though that he was a little too eager to pounce at the opportunity and forgo-ed his sense of reality - the consistent probability of disappointment. Perhaps he assumed that the universe would compensate for all the troubles that it had to be perfect, smoother road. He always knew hard work was required but, son of gun, forgot about the pain it would involve. Like the strain on his back and chest and knees. He questioned whether it was worth the impending success. But soon, his back, his chest grew sturdier and the strain subsided into resistant muscles. To become less repellent and more adaptive to the pain was the challenge."_


End file.
